


Lazy Days

by Asutoraru



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: All ff Genres, Angst, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Fantasy, Fluff, M/M, One Shot Collection, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Romanticism, Sentimental, Slice of Life, Thriller, Top John Watson, partially though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-12-08
Packaged: 2018-05-18 20:36:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5942308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asutoraru/pseuds/Asutoraru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a beautiful spring day in the hugely populated and chaotic London. Something particularly strange, given that in a city like that the rain was on the agenda. Yet, good weather agrees, the sky was clear: painted by an unknown artist in a single touch of light blue, so uniform and delicate that it seemed almost unreal. </p><p>But what would happen with a bored Sherlock looking for fun and a computer that knows too well the definition of ' fanfiction ' ?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hey!  
> So, it's my first time writing in this site and the first fanfiction I write in english. I'm italian (if you want to read the original, just search 'Asutoraru' on Efp or Wattpad! Or just leave me a comment and I'll gladly tell you where you can find it! <3) and I don't have a beta at the moment who can correct my mistakes. In fact, I'm all by myself and with not that much of an english knowledge. I'll try my best to fix mistakes though, and I'll have absolutely no problem if you point them out to me.  
> I hope you like this prologue and see you at the next chapter!

It was a beautiful spring day in the hugely populated and chaotic London. Something particularly strange, given that in a city like that the rain was on the agenda. Yet, good weather agrees, the sky was clear: painted by an unknown artist in a single touch of light blue, so uniform and delicate that it seemed almost unreal. The sun was shining joyful to brighten up any dull corner of the hectic city, putting its rays on every passing pedestrian’s look, wrapping the bodies that fascinated were watching smiling that wonderful masterpiece.

But there was someone who just couldn’t rejoice at such a beautiful day: it seemed, in fact, that those bright rays didn’t have any beneficial effect on the psyche of a man who, unmoved, had remained in his apartment with a glacial look imprinted on his face.

He was pale as if the light had never caressed his skin and had two eyes that were ironically photocopy of that marvelous sky: that man was Sherlock Holmes, in eager waiting for a case worthy of the past two weeks without any of that.

Madness! Insanity! They were inexorably dominating his head like a worm digs and corrodes the wood: Sherlock couldn’t wait anymore. Of course, he couldn’t commit murder, no, it would have been boring to solve it knowing already everything. Nor he could ask someone to do it, because it would have been a hasty and hectict death, not a thoughtful one: he wouldn’t have had the slightest taste to examine it. And then, yes, there were human ethics to follow, laws to be respected ... but oh well, not even an excuse! Where did those perverted and sick minds disappeared? When will the new, addictive murder come?

His way out, or rather, his loophole at the insinuating boredom that pervaded and trapped his head was the only thing which he had long been dependent. He could not start again after making so much progress, but what else could he do anyway? He asked this to himself an awful lot of times, while the day quicky was ending, the sun giving way to darkness, the drugs still hidden in a corner of the apartment, John around again.

Here, he could not even disturb the doctor! At least that activity could have amused him some more: the man with ash-blond hair was incredibly fun when annoyed. But Sherlock couldn’t openly reveal that secret, he didn’t want to really upset his friend, of course. It would have been harder to annoy him then!

He took note that even just thinking about John averted his mind from his other, toxic thoughts, but in the moment when he noticed the effect faded and Sherlock, alas for him and not for us, returned to the troublesome starting point.

So, in a fit of desperation, the man with thick and soft raven hair lit the roommate’s computer, hoping to find in the mail a few cases, the solution to his own, irritating problem. Why not use his own computer, you say? Too boring, and he would have had to walk back to his room to take it. Although he sought a pastime, using his energy to something as trivial unnecessarily as moving from room to room was too much even for him.

So, after passing the elementary and utterly ridiculous password (did John still believe to be able to protect his informations with _that_?), Sherlock fumbled on the post, though without finding anything besides annoying spam.

He almost wanted to give up in the face of that terrible sight, and actually was going to when, _oh God help him!_ , a strange idea came to his intricated mind: examine every file from John’s computer from top to bottom. He knew very well that the roomate would slaughter him if he did that, but he also knew that he was going to eliminate everything from his Mind Palace as soon as he had another case to solve. He did not expect to find anything interesting, it was just a way to spend some time anyway. And then, there would be no way for John to find out: he had often used his computer and John knew it, he would think only about a consuetudinary email control.

So, he began to look seriously at the device, almost as if it belonged to an important experiment or it was going to solve a case. However, after half an hour he was already tired: the documents contained only drafts for his blog, and the pictures were mostly pornographic. Not that that upsetted the dark haired man of course, but the fact that they were all female beings made him made a bitter smile.

Then he passed over: he had watched and read everything, the only folder that was missing was the one entitled music (but who the hell was Beyoncé?), soon discarded, and a rather heavy one entitled 'cats'.

It did not take a genius to realize that there was anything in there except iconography of the soft felines. In addition, it had to be relatively new because he had never seen it.

Intrigued, he opened it. It contained a number of documents, and the curious thing was that in some of them there was also his name. They all had in common the 'Ff' prefix, of which Sherlock did not know the meaning.

They were not articles for the blog if John had tried to hide them that well. And he seemed to have tried to better hide those files than the images, which was incredibly suspicious. But at the same time, the title made clear its purpose: what a contradiction.

Immediately he dismissed the thought that the blond had hidden inside those information documents about him (one was entitled 'ice skating', something he had never done) or images of some kind on its behalf. First, the documents were not very heavy, and why on earth would John do such a thing?

The mere fact that there was his name confused him a lot. He would have gone further resuming his addiction if that particular hadn’t been there. Had John wanted to try his curiosity and put it to the test? Maybe. In any case he had effectively attracted, now, its partial attention.

After some time observing startled the bright screen, Sherlock decided to open the first document in which the digital arrow had rested, ready for everything.

_Or so he thought._


	2. Snowflake Pt1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock starts reading the fanfiction he clicked on. It talks about him and John, going ice skating ... but there's something more that he doesn't expect.

_I wanna ruin our friendship_  
_We should be lovers instead_  
_I don't know how to say this_  
_Cause you're really my dearest friend._  
   
It was all very calm in London Town, which was surrounded by the winter mist and the intricate shapes of Christmas lights, hanging in the branches of fine trees that filled the empty and deep black sky like shining stars.  
The cold mist of that night entered the skin of the people who passed by. Eventhough they were wrapped in colorful and thick scarves, they still felt its gray and icy presence. Despite everything, it did not seem like there was someone willing to complain about it: the joy transmitted by the smiles of the people seemed to warm the hearts of everyone, holding a barrier against the physical cold.  
The streets were swarming with revelers, yet there wasn’t the classic buzz of a large crowd. Perhaps this was due to the fact that they were londoners, less prone to give in to the mad joy that Christmas usually brought. In any case, even that wasn’t missing: it was just more restrained and hidden. The fact was that despite all of London was enjoying the holiday, there was still someone who thought differently.  
A figure of a man, tall and unmoving, was in front of the window of 221B Baker Street. His skin, snow-like and ethereal as that of a marble statue, was lit only by the faint light of a curious lamp affixed to the wall and the reflection of Christmas lights placed in the lively street. His hair, black like the wings of a crow with slight shades of dark brown, were thick and soft curls. Through his eyes, which absorbed information as blacks holes absorb light, he watched thoughtfully from time to time the precious violin that he was holding in his hands as well as the large street behind the window. His hands were moving sinuously, yet firmly and with a surgical precision to tilt the bow,  to get out of the instrument the soft sound for which it was so loved.  
As you’ve probably guessed by now, the man I'm talking about, my dear readers, is Sherlock Holmes.  
His ideal holiday-night-out would have never been a happy dinner reunion with his family, festive outings with friends, or romantic evenings with a girl. No, absolutely none of this: one case was definitely the best Christmas present for a personality like his and the most productive way to spend his time, in his opinion. And yet, damn it, he hadn’t seen a single case from the beginning of December. Heck, had criminals taken a vacation? How was that possible? His phone, waiting impatiently a message from Lestrade, had remained silent for far too long, and Sherlock had never longed so much to hear the ringing of his cell phone mowing the silence.  
If there was one thing that the detective could not really put up with, in fact, it was boredom. He would have done anything, really, to not stand there with his hands with nothing to do. Even things he wouldn’t usually do. That hateful situation had been prolonged far too long. If he didn't have something to investigate in the next hours, he was sure he would've gone nuts very quickly. If he wasn't already, that is.  
Plus, John was tired of him constant analysing everything he did, about what he had done that day. From the statistics he made about his last amorous adventures to the percentages of sugar on the tea that Mrs. Hudson had prepared that day. A genius wasn’t needed to understand that John was about to have a nervous breakdown or, more likely (and maybe it could even have been the intention of the deranged genius), commit a murder.  
Sherlock was going to rely on his last option, the one that he was hiding in a corner of the apartment without John knowledge, in a book specially modified to contain the harmful substance - the one that the pale man couldn’t live without in those impossibly boring situations. He knew that the last thing he needed was to start again with his drug addiction, but apparently even his brain was no longer able to draw anything more to entertain itself. And that seemed the quickest, simplest and most convenient solution to escape from the dark clutches of boredom that Sherlock was not in any way capable of withstand.  
But just when he was now convinced to grab the fake book from the shelf, suddenly  John appeared at the door, with his shopping bag in hand. The detective couldn’t decide if he had to consider the roommate like a savior or if, on the contrary, he had to evaluate him as an incredibly timely spoilsport.  
Sherlock, with his glassy and bluish eyes already scrutinizing the other, was now about to prepare a brief summary of the roomate’s day based on his clothes, before the blond instinctively stopped him with a murderous look: evidently, the black-haired roomate had pierced the limit of the doctor for too long now.  
'John,’ murmured then the dark-haired man, with a tinge of irritation in his deep and baritone voice, 'I can’t stand to sit here with my arms folded, doing nothing. _I need it_ ... !' he tried to cry out, making his intentions clear in his last statement. The former soldier, however, was strangely able to silence him with a second look, cold and authoritarian. Sherlock wondered if somehow he could ever get him to let him use his drugs, using some of his weak points. It was as if the consulting detective needed an approval from his friend ... maybe he didn’t want to hurt him by doing something John didn't approve? But it was against all logic, given the nature of the man. He often did things John didn't approve. You never know, though.  
'No, Sherlock. Take it out of your head. '  said dryly the former soldier, gently placing the thin plastic bag on floor and emptying it nonchalantly, trying to ignore the complaints of the pale man a few meters further away from him, evidently failing since his annoyed look had not faded from his face.  
Sherlock was not the type to ask for advice. Nor even the type who accepted them. Or the type that listened ... no, not at all. But in the situation he was in, with Sherlock (almost) everything could be possible. John could not help but wince when, having placed carefully what he had bought in the fridge, he heard his best friend saying in pretty desperate tone what the hell he should do to not get bored a minute longer.  
The wheels of Dr. Watson's brain began then to turn frenetic: he had to find a solution, whatever it took to prevent the damned Mr. Holmes to take those pills. But how? He could not blow out a criminal case in a jiffy. Or rather, he could've. But then he did not want to clean the blood from that apartment and escape from Mycroft ...  
Eliminated the desperate scenario that had formed in his mind due to the stressful irritation that began at  the beginning of the month, he began to look into really feasible solutions. Maybe help him in some experiment? He could've, but Sherlock would never let him touch his precious finds. Maybe a sleeping pill? The detective had not slept for days with the excuse that he could 'lose a precious case': he would have needed some sleep, it was terrible to see him, his face paler day by day, with dark circles that helped to make him look like an emaciated panda. So, what was he supposed to do? Certainly he couldn’t take Sherlock out and make him realize that maybe, _maybe_ he should really enjoy Christmas. Or maybe he could?  
An idea kindled in mind: clear, simple, wonderfully perfect. And extremely interesting. What he had thought not even Sherlock was able to understand it, and as soon as John exclaimed an enigmatic 'Get your coat, Sherlock, I know what to do' even the brilliant detective did not know what was going through the head of his amazing friend.  
But since he had no alternative, he did as John said, and in a jiffy he was ready with his standard clothing, which with its elegance never failed to give him a majestic air - and the inevitable bluish coat, of course, which the detective was incredibly fond of.  
John seemed to gush joy from every pore, and every sense of the consulting detective tried to snatch the reason of his sudden happiness. He could not say if it was because of the lack of a recent case or the impulsive nature of John, but he was not really able to understand if the blond had actually had a particular idea or if he was just acting to take him away from the drugs. He revalued the second option because he knew John too well and, trusting him immensely, he knew that he was not capable of acting dumb. Or lie, at all. Also because, let's face it, it would have been very unwise given the extraordinary observational skills of Mr. Holmes.  
They both went up in the same taxi, and Sherlock could not take his eyes away from the euphoric expression of his friend - so strange, so unpredictable. If John really had had any idea, certainly he felt great joy even to think of it. The brunet stared at the burden that was beyond the vitreous sheet of the window, noticing the large crowd that converged toward the center of the city.  
He knew that their destination was the center, since John had told this to the taxi driver. But what was in the center of London? If they were going to a restaurant, it would have been quite strange given the unusual hours, and even if that was the choice of John they would have had to go a bit more distant as it was obvious that the restaurants were already fully occupied. And therefore, that hypothesis was obviously discarded.  
'John, if you really believe that going on a walk to London might diminish my boredom, I would like to inform you that it would only increase it.' he said, unable to figure out what was in John's mind. The blond haired man then chuckled, amused by the fact that something was still unknown to Sherlock. He then didn’t utter another word,  without the slightest intention of explaining his intentions and seemingly wanting to make it a surprise.  
Evidently John had other plans, but the man with thick raven curls had not really had many valid theories of what was going on the best friend’s mind. Having never visited the center of the city during holidays, and considered that he would have had eliminated all the unnecessary information from his brain later, he had no knowledge of the activity the former soldier could’ve chosen. He did not want to abandon a case so intriguing, but perhaps it would have been better if he did.  
It was when they were already out of the taxi and they were drawing near to the center, that the bored detective had figured out the reason for their presence there.  
At the center of the square there was a large skating track.  
That really couldn’t have been the reason. Had John really thought that they...?  
After he was left dazed for a few seconds to see the structure and those who darted inside, he turned his pale face to John, who he promptly saw. His eyes were filled with satisfaction and anticipation, like a child in front of their gift, or like a mad criminal who was going to slaughter his victim. It depended on the point of view, and Sherlock did not know whether the ‘less bloody situation’ was really more similar to John’s current expression. In any case, he seemed extremely euphoric.  
'John ...' murmured Sherlock, extraordinarily unable to formulate a sentence that really had a purpose. The aforementioned man looked at him with his bright blue eyes, apparently proud of himself and of his choice.  
And suddenly the enigmatic and elegant Sherlock Holmes had a pair of ice skates on his feet - stunned, speechless, amazed. He had skated only once in his life, when he was six years old, and that didn’t end very well. And although he was no longer a child, at least physiologically, the memory of that time was still inside his brain, making him anxious and nervous.  
And now he was there, his eyes proving his utter disbelief to Dr. Watson, who instead seemed more than ready to skate. It did not take a genius like Sherlock to understand that  it wasn’t the first time John had done it, and that he was obviously confident of his ability.  
The detective wasn’t usually modest in showing his skills, but he was well aware of what he did not know, just like a philosopher admits his immense ignorance despite his seemingly vast knowledge. Certainly, however, he could no longer hold back, now: he could’ve done it before putting his ice skates on so foolishly.  
Quickly, a strange form of childhood terror began to make its way through his veins. The thought of dropping like a sack of potatoes on that smooth and cold floor, in front of that crowd ... oh, Lord. He didn’t even want to think about it, but for a mind like his it was hard not to think. Awareness struck his skull like a sharp knife, stabbing his cerebral cortex: he did not know how to skate. He didn’t know how to do it. Oh, for all criminals, he did not know how to skate! What a _tragedy_!  
John seemed to see the dismay in the eyes of the best friend, and he tried to show off one of his most reassuring and benevolent smiles. Too bad it did not have the desired effect on poor Sherlock who despite everything was able to not appear as desperate as he was as he tried to bend his lips to form a small, shaky smile. John surely couldn’t have imagined that a man so impassive and serious could be afraid of skating. And Sherlock wouldn’t have admitted it even under the most painful of tortures.  
Therefore, taking advantage of John’s difficulty to find shoes little enough to fit his little feet, the great Sherlock Holmes schematized his few and disappointing alternatives.

  * Find an excuse and return to the apartment: John would’ve known it was a lie and he didn’t want to hurt John.
  * Tell him the truth: he would’ve preferred a boring dinner with Irene than admitting he was scared.
  * Pretend to receive a call from Lestrade: he would’ve asked to come with him. And Greg is definitely too honest with John to keep up with the lie.
  * Learn how to skate: ... most recommended option.



Was it because of the desire to satisfy John and overcome his terror, had it been for the curiosity and the challenge, at the end Sherlock took the only option he had left. He had to learn how to skate on the ice, in the middle of a huge amount of people, fundamentally from scratch, knowing absolutely nothing about it.  
The poor man then lifted his eyes to observe the movements of people darting inside the large track: he selected the most stable, ie those less prone to fall, and with the constitution most similar to his, trying to assimilate  as more datas he could about their movements, the inclination of their skates against the ice when they took a curve, the approximate thrust which was needed to aquire speed, the temperature that was there at that time, the track conditions ...  
He gathered data, as he always did when he had to solve a case, hoping that it could help him not seem like a complete idiot in front of John. The little one often repeated it to him, that he was an idiot of course, but Sherlock had always that ego who advised him to make, whenever it was possible, a good impression on him, although John had already seen at his worst and his best - his flaws and his, so he called them, 'fantastic' strengths. Maybe he was too good on him, the detective thought. After all, he had been the first to congratulate him as well, for no reason in particular, and it was something that had fascinated Sherlock. John always complimented him for just being himself. Little did he know that Sherlock adored him as well.  
The detective had been bewitched by that combative and tenacious soul from the first time he had seen him, curious and uncertain, entering his beloved lab.  
   
Meanwhile John had returned, ready as ever to put into practice his skills as a skater. Noted the thoughtful look of his friend, he could only imagine what was going on in his head, hidden by his thick curls, but he only guessed part of his thoughts. He then chuckled, giving a gentle pat on the back to Sherlock who quickly awoke from his daze, turning his clear and tapered eyes towards him.  
'If you aren’t able to skate, Sherlock, I can teach you.' he murmured, with a look that comforted in part the friend, before placing the solid blade of his blackish skate-shoes on the busy track.  
The raven-haired man followed him doubtfully, hesitating a moment before laying the first, wobbly skate on the ice. When he finally did, the contact with the friction-free surface made it instantly clear to Sherlock that that ice skating wouldn't be an easy task. One of his pale hands grasped intuitively the fence near him: the feeling of being able to fall at any moment was constant, and it was not something Sherlock particularly liked. Normally he loved danger, but that kind of danger was more rooted than others in Sherlock's mind as it was a fear of his childhood, which he had always brought with him. And although he was able to keep it confined in an intricate Himitsu Bako * stored in a drawer of his mind palace, in that moment that fear was revived, ready to manifest itself violently against his psyche simply because it belonged to a strong memory of his past. It wasn’t just the fear of falling itself: it was the fear of failure, of not being able to achieve a goal.  
   
Sherlock turned his gaze to John, who was perfectly stable over the ice. He had already started moving on the smooth platform, while being left relatively close. It seemed like it was a natural movement to him, almost as if the ice were his element. Ironic, given that John had spent most of his life in Afghanistan, in a dry and hot desert.  
The doctor was rather low in stature, so Sherlock could not compare his movements with that of the other: they were bound to be definitely very different. It was interesting, however, how John was so agile over the ice, skating with a regular rhythm  almost as if he was on the battlefield. It seemed like he was flying, and seeing his visibly pleased expression, Sherlock was almost sure he could. He lost himself watching the blonde man for a moment, without a real purpose. He wondered when he had learned to skate.  
He then awoke from his thoughts when  he was about to lose his balance. He quickly tried to hold more tightly to the railing, and was pleased when he avoided the possible fall. He then tried to skate - or rather, at his level, he tried to stand up right without making an idiotic impression.  
He began to follow all the information he had obtained a few minutes earlier: apparently it was common advice to start by simply walking over the ethereal surface, with small steps. It was not a simple thing to take your feet off the ground considering the precarious position Sherlock was in, but the security of having something to lean on (and then consequently the impression of not being able to fall) did his part and the consultant detective was able to remain decently balanced. From then on it was a matter of speed and technique, and if Sherlock could accomplish the first (in some way, perhaps), the second was based only on data that he had deduced.  
So, trying to keep his balance, he began to make calculations on calculations, without noticing that he was turning around the track very, very slowly, without improving his technique in any way.  John probably had imagined what he was doing, and given that he was looking forward to seeing him skating (because, he was sure, a Sherlock who could skate would be the funniest thing in the world), he skate to him. When he heard  numbers and formulas coming out of the detective’s plump lips, he rolled his eyes: trite to say, but that was surely a thing Sherlock would do.  
John caught him by surprise when he grabbed the edge of the sleeve of his bluish trenchcoat, keeping him dangerously away from the safe and stable fence. Sherlock jumped when he found himself deprived of the divine support, and if it were not for John, he would have risked a despicable fall.  
'John!' He exclaimed, paralyzed and terrified from being suddenly in the middle of the track. For a moment he raised his eyes, looking away from his shoes to try to understand what the blonde had in mind.  
'Sherlock, if you don’t detach from what keeps you stable will never be able to skate.'  
'But I'm not able to skate, John. Furthermore, if I have something to hold on to, I will not fall. '  
'You’ll hold onto me. Now follow what I tell you.' He murmured quietly, starting to skate to bring his friend in his direction and give him a good speed. Sherlock seemed quite destabilized by the sudden acceleration, and unconsciously grabbed John's hand, hoping to find the same stability and security that he had previously.  
'I admit that this activity is not boring, John' murmured then the detective, trying to appear as little as possible terrified, although the fear in his eyes was pretty much evident, 'but you could’ve told me that it was .. . this, your idea.' he continued, with an accusatory tone in his serious and hoarse voice. John merely chuckled, perhaps happy to finally know another thing that genius who was holding his hand did not know.  
Sherlock stared to his shoes for a long time, trying to keep a position that wouldn’t make him fall. He seemed to have forgotten that he had grasped John’s hand, something which instead John was apparently fully aware of, seeing the thin veil of pink that coloured his cheeks.  
He noted the uncertainty of Sherlock, and decided to begin to accelerate, causing a genuine jolt of surprise by the raven-haired man. John was skating backwards in front of him, holding both of his hands to bring him forward. Sherlock lifted his gaze, determined to tell John to stop because he was going too fast for its current capacity. But when his eyes met those grayish lapis lazuli-blue of the other and his benevolent smile, not a sound came of of Sherlock’s lips. They parted for a moment and then they closed, leaving only a little cloud of warm air, which was quickly englobed by the fine mist that surrounded them.  
He suddenly seemed to lose interest in his shoes and in keeping his balance, and his attention moved only on John's face. The Christmas lights brought sparkles all over his face:  from his ash-blond tufts to that funny little nose of his, his puffy cheeks, his gentle features and his tender expression. Everything else was now on the background, almost as to frame John’s wonderful face.  
He didn’t realize that he was skating, even if his movements were still very uncertain and unstable. He was certainly making some progress though. But in that moment, he wasn’t giving his new-found abilities any attention, too lost to observe who was in front of him.  
His very own eyes seemed lost. The black curls slightly tousled in front of his eyelashes. His lips parted slightly, as if he was about to utter words while not getting out a single phoneme.  
It was when John, probably noticing the engrossed expression that his friend was giving him (his cheeks were tinged again with a slight shade of pink, the raven-haired man had noticed), broke the silence that Sherlock returned to himself and suddenly lost his balance. John’s attempts to not drop him were useless: even though he was a former soldier, his small stature could not hold Sherlock, who inevitably found himself on the ground. Or better, above the ice.  
John tried to help him, as far as possible, to rise to his feet. Once lifted up, Sherlock appeared quite nervous, and John could not say if it was because he had fallen, or for some other reason. When the detective said 'You can go, I need to think' with a decisive and dry tone, John realized that it would’ve been better to leave him alone for a few minutes. Maybe he really shouldn’t have taken him there. In his mind it had seemed like a good idea, though.  
He would certainly leave him alone, but since the friend strangely had not mentioned even once the proposal to go away from there, John thought that maybe he should simply try to wait until Sherlock had not given an answer by himself. Thus, albeit with a strange feeling in the chest, he began to spin, trying to find a solution to that inconvenience. Everything that could drive the consulting detective away from his toxic addictions.  
But when he was all alone again, away from his friend, although for so little, he realized that everything had suddenly become different, almost gray. And while skating, trying to find a solution to even entertain the dark haired man without having a case in his hands (unfortunately a very difficult task), a memory resurfaced in his mind ...  
   
* Himitsu Bako: also called 'puzzle box' or 'Japanese Box', it’s a box that can be opened only through a certain sequence of movements. This usually makes it difficult to open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have the worst timing of publishing new chapters. I mean. ONE YEAR. ONE YEAR PEOPLE. It took me one year to translate this chapter (well, not a year, just three days). You're a saint if you still read this, man. Gosh.  
> Anyway, thanks to everyone that left kudos and comments! I really didn't expect so much love (and now I feel like shit because I kept you waiting for so long. SIGH).  
> It's just that I'm an idiot because I haven't yet finished the story in italian (even if I perfectly know how I want it to go) and I translated in english thinking that no one would've read it because I'm not good at it. And then you guys come here and make me so darn happy and I make you wait one year for a single chapter. I'm the worst, I know.  
> Anyway, I got faster at translating (HA!) and I have a little more confidence on my abilities (reeeeally little though. LOL) so I'll try to be more active. I'll try to translate a chapter every two months (obviously sooner if I can!). Try to keep up with me until then.  
> Love you. <3
> 
> Asu


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